When I Count My Blessings, I Count You Twice
by Lopithecus
Summary: Clark goes to the Manor to visit Bruce. Set just after Batman Beyond.


**When I Count My Blessings, I Count You Twice**

 **A/N: This is for the SuperBat Secret Santa (from Tumblr) and is for boxymilk (on Tumblr)!**

 **There seems to be some confusion on how many years pass between the end of Btas/JLU aka "now" and Batman Beyond. Some say 40 years, others say 50 years. I've decided to go with 45 years and then tack on 5 more years for this fic. That means this fic takes place 5 years after Batman Beyond.**

 **Boxymilk, I hope you enjoy this! I'm sorry it's so sad! Hopefully the second story for your gift makes up for my cruelness. XD**

 **Enjoy and happy holidays!**

 **Ages:**

 **-Bruce: 87**

 **-Clark: 86**

 **-Dick: 71**

 **-Jason: 69**

 **-Tim: 67**

 **-Damian: 60**

 **-Terry: 22  
**

Clark is in the Fortress of Solitude when he gets the call. It's from Terry, the kid sounding distant and in shock. Clark doesn't have to ask Terry why it's so important that he get to the Manor. Clark already knows, a gut feeling that he has as Terry says the words. Clark is careful not to react, to just stand there listening to the modern-day Batman without giving away the fact that his heart is constricting in his chest. Instead he tells the young man that he will be there shortly, then hangs up.

Clark doesn't feel right as he flies towards the Manor, the house that holds so many memories, good and bad. He's made some good memories in the house himself, with Bruce's children and Bruce himself. Some of those memories he cherishes greatly, never wanting to forget them. Some memories are only for Bruce and Clark's minds, never to be told to another living soul. Some memories Bruce and Clark will die with.

As he gets closer to the house, Clark slows his flying. Despite his decelerated aging, Clark's powers still represent his age. He's gotten weaker with age, not as fast, doesn't have as much energy. His physicality has been changing imperceptibly, humans not having noticed. But Clark does notice and so does Diana and J'onn. Being in his eighties has not been good for Clark, at least in a Kryptonian who is exposed to yellow sun radiation perspective. He's been feeling his age as of late and dreads to see how he feels when he reaches two hundred years old.

Clark hasn't told Bruce about the effects aging has had on him. He doesn't see the point in burdening Bruce with such knowledge. Not when Bruce himself has been feeling older and older as the years pass. It didn't seem fair or courteous to complain about his own aging woes. After all, what Clark felt, Bruce felt a hundred times stronger.

But none of that matters now. It doesn't matter because Clark is landing in front of the back door that leads into the kitchen where the whole family is gathered, dreading going inside. He enters anyway. Clark has to be strong right now. He can't break down when the family needs him.

As soon as Clark enters the Manor, he is greeted by arguing between Damian and Terry. He's not surprised to see this happening. Damian didn't like Terry the moment the Wayne heir met the kid. Damian has always been mad that Bruce had given the Batman title to Terry and often times takes it out on Terry. Terry, on the other hand, didn't have a problem with Damian until Damian started picking fights with him. It had always bothered Bruce that they would fight over such a stupid thing.

"Well maybe," Damian begins. "If you hadn't of become _The_ Batman in the first place, Father wouldn't have been so stressed and he wouldn't be in the condition he is in now."

"Come on, Dami," Dick says, voice raspy with age. "You know that isn't true."

Both Damian and Terry ignore Dick, Terry continuing on with the argument with Damian. "Without me _being_ here, Bruce would have died long before now."

"Tt, right," Damian snarls but the wrinkles around his mouth make it look less intimidating than it did when Damian took over the Batman role. "Because you being so sloppy didn't give him daily aneurysms."

"Sloppy!" Terry's hand clenches into a fist.

A long and tired sigh escapes Tim's old lungs. "Guys, can you stop arguing? This really isn't the time."

"Tt." Damian crosses his arms and turns away from the youngest member of the group. Terry glares at Damian's back.

"You're sixty years old but I'm glad to see you haven't grown out of your childish stage, Demon Spawn," Jason's thick and scratchy voice says quietly from the older man's corner.

"Shut the hell up, Todd." Damian narrows his eyes. "Don't you think I've outgrown that nickname?"

"Apparently not," Tim mutters and Damian growls at him.

"I might be old, but I can still kick your ass, Drake," Damian snarls.

Tim stands up straighter, his bones cracking and popping. "Try me."

Dick steps in between the two, hands out to both sides to stop the two men. "Okay, enough. This isn't the time, just like you said Timmy."

Clark has seen and heard enough so he finally clears his throat, not having been noticed yet. He realizes in that moment just how invisible he's become with age. Not that he is complaining. After so many years of being in the spotlight, it's nice to not be noticed for once.

All eyes turn to him, a mixture of shock and relief flooding old and young eyes. Terry is the first to speak, being the one with the fastest reflexes. "Superman, you made it."

Clark steps into the room more. "Of course." He looks around the room. "Where is he?"

Terry looks around at the others but no one offers up an answer. No one even meets Clark's eyes. Clark recognizes the looks that each of the boys have, the demeanor of not wanting to acknowledge what is going on. Terry frowns and gestures for Clark to follow. Clark does silently, the weight in his chest getting heavier as he walks the halls and rooms he's become so familiar with. So many things he could reminisce about.

Terry sighs gloomily beside him. "All of those guys have already gone and seen him."

Clark nods, swallowing thickly. "And you?"

The twenty-two year old shrugs. "Yeah."

Clark eyes the kid. "Are you okay?"

Again, Terry shrugs. "I don't know why, but I thought I would be older when it happened." Clark turns straight ahead once more, his throat closing up. "I have so much more I can learn from him."

Clark swallows several times, trying to rid the lump in his throat. "You'll be able to learn from the League."

Terry is eyeing him now. "Are _you_ okay?"

They stop in front of Bruce's bedroom. The door is shut and Clark hates to find out what awaits him on the other side. He gives the young man a soft smile. It doesn't reach his eyes. "Let me get back to you on that."

Terry nods and turns to leave. Before the kid disappears, Terry shifts to face him. "I'm sorry." The young man then walks away, hands in pant pockets.

Clark watches the kid go until he can no longer see Terry's back. Turning back to the door, Clark takes a deep breath and opens it, walking in hesitantly. What greets him takes his breath away and Clark has to force down the tears, blinking them away before they can fall. He doesn't want to cry yet, for Bruce's sake. If Clark does, it'll upset Bruce and then Bruce will tease him to cover up how the man is feeling.

Clark walks into the room and shuts the door behind him. Bruce lies there on his bed, oxygen mask covering his mouth and nose. There is a chair situated next to the bed, where Clark assumes the kids had sat earlier. The blinds are drawn closed and the light is off in the room except for the soft glow of a night light next to the bed. If Clark hadn't of known what was happening, it would almost seem peaceful.

A cough comes from the bed and Bruce's head slowly turns to peer at Clark. The older man is glaring at him. "You going to just stand there or are you going to come over here?"

Clark is by his side in an instant, helping Bruce to sit up. The man groans and flinches at the pain moving causes but otherwise doesn't complain. When Bruce is sat up and has pulled down the oxygen mask, Clark sits down in the chair. "How are you?" he asks.

Bruce is still glaring. "No better than I was ten years ago." Clark gives Bruce a small smile for the man's effort at a joke. Bruce rolls his eyes then falls into a coughing fit. Clark grabs the water that has been placed on the side table and holds it out to Bruce. Bruce waves it away and so Clark sets it back down. When the coughing stops, Bruce sighs tiredly. "Stop looking so concerned."

"I'm not," Clark replies and it earns him Bruce rolling his eyes. "Seriously, Bruce, how are you feeling? Can I get you anything?"

"No," is Bruce's sharp reply. Then those icy blue eyes are on Clark. "Actually yes. You can help me onto the balcony."

Alarmed, Clark asks, "Are you sure that's wise?"

"When do I ever do anything that isn't completely thought out and planned? I'll be fine."

"But-"

"I'm dying, Clark, not incompetent," Bruce interrupts. Clark frowns and it earns him another eye roll. "Stop looking so sad. We all knew this was coming. Do you think I couldn't tell when you were listening to my heart weakening these past couple weeks?" Bruce throws the covers off himself and swings his legs off the side of the bed. "I'm still Batman."

"I think Terry would disagree," Clark says, attempting to joke.

"Terry is a child and is stupid." Bruce strains as he tries to stand and Clark is up and out of the chair immediately, grabbing a hold of Bruce's arm and hauling him up. He steadies the man with one arm around Bruce's slim waist and they both slowly make their way to the balcony. Once there, Bruce settles, leaning on the railing.

Clark watches him carefully. "You don't mean that." Bruce grimaces, not having a retort because Clark is right. Bruce knows it. Terry might not be Tim level of genius but the kid isn't stupid by any means.

"He's unskilled," Bruce finally rasps, coughing again. When the man settles, Bruce peers out into the garden. Clark wonders what it must look like to Bruce. In the dark, Clark can see the overgrown hedges and dying flowers perfectly but he's Kryptonian and Bruce isn't. Plus, Bruce is old. The eighty-seven year old's eyesight isn't as good as it used to be. "I let the garden get away from me," Bruce continues before Clark can comment on Terry being unskilled.

Clark places a hand on Bruce's back, feels how small and fragile the man has become. He has to swallow around the lump again. "You did your best."

"Alfred always took care of it. I tried after he…" Bruce trails off, clears his throat that then sends him into another coughing fit.

Clark pets Bruce's back gently. "You did very well."

Bruce huffs, the one he does when he thinks someone is being idiotic. "No, I didn't. Don't lie."

Clark smiles at being called out. It doesn't matter how old Bruce gets, the man is still as sharp as ever. "Sorry."

Silence descends around them, engulfing the balcony and filling it with heavy air that makes it hard to breathe. Clark wishes he was anywhere but here, wishes that this wasn't happening. He wishes he wasn't a Kryptonian with the knowledge of how much longer he has to live without Bruce in his life. Clark swallows thickly, his eyes burning with the need to shed tears. He's not sure he wants to live in a world without Bruce Wayne.

Bruce is eyeing him and Clark avoids eye contact. He's afraid that if he looks into those blue eyes that he loves so much, he won't be able to hold back his emotions anymore. He doesn't want to cry in front of Bruce, show how much this whole thing is tearing him up inside. After all, all of it is happening to Bruce. Bruce is the one that is going away to an unknown place. Clark is just being left behind.

Bruce's hand on Clark's cheek startles Clark out of his thoughts. Finally, they both lock eyes and Clark feels his chest constrict. "I'm sorry," Bruce murmurs.

Clark looks at the man in confusion, eyebrows furrowing and eyes searching Bruce's. "For what?"

"For putting you through all this."

Bruce's statement only serves to confuse Clark more. He shakes his head, not understanding. "Bruce-"

"We had to keep our relationship a secret." Bruce pauses to clear his throat. The sound of it is moist, as if his lungs are filling with liquid. Clark is too afraid to check with x-ray vision. "When I started getting older and you… didn't." Bruce frowns and caresses Clark's cheek. "We had to kill off Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne had to hold a fake funeral for his boyfriend."

"I aged," Clark says softly, trying to lighten the mood but knowing he fails.

Bruce rolls his eyes. "You know what I mean."

Clark does. He knows exactly what Bruce means. That the man in front of Clark continued to visibly get older and become weaker year after year while Clark only sprouted a few grey hairs at the sides of his head. Bruce used to joke about it, in the man's blunt way, but eventually those jokes turned serious and then planning began. Bruce is the one that came up with the idea to have Clark die in a car accident, to hold a funeral for him. Bruce even tried to break up with Clark but Clark would have none of it. He didn't care how old Bruce got or how they went along with continuing their relationship. As long as Clark was still with Bruce he was happy. But now Clark really is losing Bruce and there's nothing he can do, no amount of stubbornness and determination, that will stop it.

Clark grabs Bruce's hand, the one that was on his cheek and squeezes as carefully as possible. Bruce is so delicate now. Easily breakable. "I wouldn't have been so insistent that we keep dating if I had a problem with it, Bruce."

"I look like I could be your father, Clark." Bruce yanks his hand out of Clark's and rubs at it, the pain of arthritis surely radiating. "Maybe even your grandfather."

Clark smiles at Bruce, loving and reassuring. "You're beautiful, Bruce."

Bruce huffs again, rolling his eyes. "No, I'm not. I'm old and ugly."

Clark frowns and grabs Bruce's hand again. "Don't say that, Bruce. I still think you are the most beautiful person in the entire universe."

Bruce scowls at him, looking out into the garden once more. Clark can still see Bruce's blush even in the dark. "Don't lie just to flatter me, Kent."

Clark chuckles at Bruce trying to hide his embarrassment. "It's true," he says encouragingly. "I will always think you are beautiful."

"Then you're a moron," Bruce retorts.

Clark sighs but doesn't try to convince the man more. He knows Bruce knows he's telling the truth. That Clark really does find Bruce beautiful even after all these years. Even with the grey, thinning hair, the wrinkles, the raspy, damaged voice, and sagging skin, Bruce is still just as beautiful as the man was the moment Clark met him. Aging doesn't take that away for Clark. Aging only intensifies it, mystifies it, and makes Clark amazed by the whole process, by how _human_ it is.

Clark puts a soft hand behind Bruce's head and drags it over to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to Bruce's temple. "I love you," he whispers and listens as Bruce grumbles at him but doesn't push him away.

By now Bruce's breathing has become shallower, harder for the man to take in. Clark tries to ignore it. Bruce will let him know when he needs to have the oxygen mask back on. Clark trusts Bruce. Trusts Bruce to trust him to take care of everything, to help, even if Bruce doesn't want the help. Bruce needs the help.

"It's surprisingly a nice night," Bruce mumbles so quietly, Clark almost misses it.

He pulls Bruce closer, allows the man to lean on him and rest. Bruce is so thin. Clark tightens his grip a tad bit more, desperate to not let go. "It is. I guess Gotham decided to be nice for once."

"Hmm," Bruce hums and leans his head on Clark's shoulder. Clark blinks, wetness gathering at the edges of his eyes. "Terry better not be slacking just because I'm dying here."

Clark forces a smile, looking up at the clouds in the night sky. "It's a quiet night, don't worry." He's lying. There's currently two bank robberies happening, one woman yelling at someone trying to steal her purse, a car chase with the cops, and a man running away from a murder.

Bruce has his eyes narrowed on Clark again. "You're still a terrible liar." The man turns out of Clark's grasp. "I'm going to go order Terry to get his lazy-" Bruce crumples and starts coughing.

Clark rushes to his side, alarmed. "Bruce!" He tries to get him up by grabbing his elbow. "Come on, let's get you back in bed."

Bruce shrugs the hand off and Clark lets him, afraid of breaking him. "Let go of me," he chokes, bent over in half as he continues to hack. "I don't need your damn help."

Clark frowns but doesn't argue as he watches Bruce struggle to breathe, struggle to stand up. He swallows, feeling his stomach churn with nausea. "Bruce, maybe you should lie down."

Bruce grumbles some more and finally gets his feet steady under him. "Why can't you all just let me die alone in peace?"

Clark smiles at the man, small and amused. "You know I can't do that." Clark helps to keep Bruce's balance by grabbing the man's elbow once more. This time he isn't pushed away and instead leaned into. "I won't do that."

Bruce huffs and allows himself to be guided towards the bed. Clark pulls the covers back more and lets Bruce struggle to get into the bed himself. If Clark had tried to help the man, he would have just been pushed away again. By the time Bruce is fully in the bed and Clark is pulling the covers up to the man's chin, Bruce is panting breaths. "I don't need you or anyone else hovering over me, waiting for me to die."

Clark sits down in the chair, pulling it close. He grabs onto Bruce's hand and holds it delicately. "Don't say that."

"Why?" Bruce meets his eyes. "It's what you're doing." Clark sees Bruce swallow several times before the man continues, whispering, "I don't want you to watch me die, Clark."

"I watch people die all the time."

"Not me," Bruce says sternly. If his voice wasn't so ruined by age, he would have sounded so much like Batman. "Not me, Clark."

Clark smiles at the man again, reaching over to rub at one of Bruce's cheeks. "Well that's not your decision to make, now is it?"

Bruce stares at him for a while before reaching up and caressing Clark's cheek. "You're so stubborn."

"I learned from the best." Clark's statement makes Bruce huff a laugh, breathy and wet sounding. "Do you need a drink?" Bruce nods slowly and Clark reaches over for the water. He hands it to Bruce and the man drinks it gratefully, handing it back to Clark when done. Clark places it back on the nightstand. "How are you feeling?"

"Terrible."

Clark chuckles, earning himself another eye roll from Bruce. "Typical Bruce. Deadpan as ever."

"Did you expect anything different?" Bruce wheezes.

"No, I'm just…" he pauses, taking in the sight of Bruce and those blue eyes. "I'm glad it hasn't changed."

They sit there in silence, Clark watching Bruce as the man lies there breathing hard. Clark doesn't ask him about the oxygen mask, whether he wants it or not. It won't do him any good and it will most likely just make Bruce mad. So instead he sits there, trying not to use his super hearing to listen to Bruce's breathing closer than humanly possible, to use his x-ray vision to look at Bruce's lungs or heart. Being overly observant, overly concerned, won't do either of them any good.

"How are the boys doing?" Bruce struggles to ask. Clark suspects Bruce is worried about leaving them, even if the majority are in their sixties and seventies.

Clark uses his super hearing then to listen to the boys who are still down in the kitchen. Tim is crying and Dick is rubbing his back to try and sooth him. Damian is telling Tim with a wavering voice to grow up, that everyone dies and that Tim should get over it. Jason hits the refrigerator in frustrated anger.

Clark smiles at Bruce. "They're okay. The boys are strong. They'll get through this."

Bruce stares at him for a while. They both know Bruce knows Clark just gave him another lie, that the boys aren't okay at all. But Bruce doesn't call Clark out this time. Instead he says, "Good. That's how I trained them." Then Bruce sighs, sounding tired and weak. "And Terry?"

Clark doesn't ask how Bruce knew Terry wasn't included in that answer and instead listens again, but Terry isn't in the kitchen with the rest of them. Terry is in the lounge, soft sobs coming from his throat as the young man cries in front of a family portrait, one of the few that actually includes him in it. Clark smiles again. "He's the strongest out of all of them. Very mature in the way that he is trying to comfort everyone."

Again, Bruce knows he is lying but doesn't say anything about it. "I knew he would be," is all Bruce mumbles and Clark forces a sad smile onto his lips.

Clark rubs one of Bruce's hands, feels how boney it is. "They all love you, Bruce. Even Terry."

Bruce nods minutely, whispering, "I didn't make it easy for any of them." Blue, old eyes turn to him. They are starting to get unfocused and Clark tries to not let that panic him. "I didn't make it easy for you either."

Clark chuckles, dry and sad. There's no weight behind it anymore. Clark suddenly feels like crying and he has to blink the tears away again. "I will admit, it wasn't easy for any of us, but it was worth it, Bruce. To fight for you, fight for your love, for _our_ love. I love you and that's never going to change. It's never going to go away."

Bruce looks away, doesn't say anything for a long time. Then, sternly, "I want you to promise me something you idiot." Clark frowns at the insult. "After I'm gone and you're done mourning for my sorry ass, I want you to move on. Find a new woman or man to love. Someone better than me."

Clark shakes his head, not being able to believe what he is hearing. "I'm not going to do that."

Bruce narrows his eyes. "Yes, you are."

Still, Clark shakes his head. "No."

"Yes, Kal," Bruce says intensely. "Promise me. You deserve, _deserved_ , much better than me."

Clark's eyes fill with tears again and he struggles to keep them at bay. "No. You were the best. No one can ever compare."

Bruce frowns, the wrinkles along his mouth making deep grooves in his skin. "I'm not stupid, Clark. I'm perfectly self-aware enough to know that I wasn't."

Clark bites his bottom lip and bows his head to the bed, holding onto Bruce's hand probably tighter than he should be. He's going to damage the hand. He lets up slightly, his grip no longer so desperate. "I'm not going to promise that, Bruce." Bruce growls and Clark looks up at the man, eyes wet with unshed tears. "Even if I wanted to, which I don't, I'm too old to date again."

Bruce huffs, coughs, then starts speaking. "You're not too old and you know it. Not for a Kryptonian under a yellow sun." Bruce clears his throat and wheezes before continuing. "I understand if you don't want to date another human. The age difference would be too weird. But another immortal or another being that will live just as long as you should be no problem."

Clark once more shakes his head and blinks at the moistness teetering at the edge of his eyes. "Don't make me promise that. Please, Bruce. I can't promise that."

Bruce sighs, defeated or maybe the man is just too tired to continue the argument. "So, stubborn," Bruce breathes and the sides of Clark's lips pull upward. Again, silence surrounds them but this time it lasts a shorter amount of time before Bruce is speaking again. "Clark? Can I ask you to do something for me?"

Clark huffs a laugh. Bruce should know he can ask Clark anything and Clark will do it. "Of course."

Bruce's eyes look at Clark from the corners. "Will you lie with me?"

Clark smiles sadly, nodding his head and taking a deep breath to not cry. "Of course." He gets up out of the chair and carefully maneuvers Bruce so there is room on the bed for himself. Clark then gently lowers himself to the mattress, next to Bruce, still holding onto the man's hand as softly as he possibly can in his grief-stricken state of mind.

Bruce sighs next to him in contentment. "Hold me."

Clark swallows and blinks rapidly once more. He's on the verge of really crying now. He's not sure how much longer he can hold out. "Of course."

When Clark wraps his arms around Bruce gingerly, Bruce sighs again. "Tighter, Kent."

Clark takes a staggering breath in. "Of course." He tightens his grip and listens to Bruce's heart. It's slowing now. A lump lodges itself in Clark's throat and refuses to leave no matter how many times he tries to swallow it down.

"Better," Bruce murmurs, closing his eyes. A long, struggled breath escapes the man's mouth. "You can cry if you want," Bruce whispers. Clark shakes his head, burying his face in Bruce's shoulder and tightening his grip ever so slightly. The tears can no longer be held at bay and they slip out of his eyes. He can't talk. The lump is too big. "Why not?" Bruce asks, as if the man can't feel the tears on his shoulder soaking through his thin shirt. "It's okay to, Clark." Bruce reaches a shaky hand up and pets at Clark's hair. "I won't judge you."

Clark swallows several times until he can find his voice. It wavers and he has a hard time not letting it be noticed. He knows Bruce notices anyway. "I love you," Clark struggles to say and he wants to say so much more than that but can't. He wants to recount all the times they shared together; all the missions, the dinners, the sex, all the times they laughed and cried together. He wants to tell Bruce how much he's going to miss him, how much his heart is breaking right now, that he doesn't know if he can go on without Bruce. But he doesn't. He keeps his mouth shut because if he opens it again, he knows all that will come out is a sob.

Bruce's hand is slowing in his hair, weary fingers combing softly. "I love you too, Clark."

They lie there in the silence, Clark biting his bottom lip to quiet his cries. Bruce's breathing is loud but shallow, each struggled breath sounding painful. Clark listens to it, cherishing each moment Bruce draws in air and the feel of those crafty fingers on his head. But eventually that hand stops moving and Clark counts one breath, two breaths, three breaths. The forth breath never comes.

Using his super hearing, Clark listens for Bruce's heartbeat but can't find it. He lies there for five minutes, holding Bruce close, and listening, _wishing_ , for that thump in Bruce's chest to start back up. It never does and Clark's eyes fill with more tears. He finally lets them fall freely without trying to stop them, allows himself to sob out loud and place his head on Bruce's chest. Clark doesn't want to let the man go, doesn't want to watch him go.

Grief constricts Clark's chest and he cries loudly, sniffling and hiccupping into Bruce's shirt. He fists the article of clothing, pulling Bruce as close as he can get to the man, no longer scared of breaking him. He can't break him now. Bruce is gone. The man he loves is gone and isn't coming back.

Clark doesn't know how long he lies there but he knows it's for ages and that he really should go tell the boys. But he can't bring himself to let go of Bruce yet and he ends up lying there for even longer. Slowly, Clark starts to stop crying, hiccupping every now and again. The grief he feels in his chest weighs heavily there and threatens to explode whenever the thought of the future pops into his head. He ignores it.

Clark sniffles and lifts a hand to wipe at his eyes, slowly lifting his head as well. Just as wearily, he sits up and takes a deep breath before looking over at Bruce. He's glad to see that Bruce's eyes are already closed and hopes that Bruce at least fell asleep before passing on. Clark's own eyes roam Bruce's face and if he didn't know better, he would think Bruce was sleeping. The man looks peaceful, face no longer taut with pain and worry and anger. When Clark blinks, more tears roll down his cheeks and he leans over to kiss Bruce's forehead.

Clark closes his eyes, says a little prayer to whoever is listening, and then kisses Bruce's lips. The man has already started to get cold. It's no longer Bruce but it's still hard to pull away, to drag himself out of the bed, limbs feeling heavy, and place each foot on the floor. It's even harder to muster up the energy to stand and to walk to the door. Harder still to reach out and open that door. Clark doesn't want to look back but does anyway. He needs to see Bruce one last time, the man he loves with all his heart. When he does, he swallows around the lump that has yet to leave, studying Bruce's lifeless form on the bed. "Bye Bruce," he whispers and leaves the room

Clark dreads the walk down into the kitchen where the boys, including Terry now, are still gathered. As he enters, they fall silent and watch him. Clark stands in the doorway, not sure how to even say it. They all knew it was going to happen but words escape him. How do you tell someone's sons that their father just passed away? Taking a deep breath, Clark steadies himself but when it comes to opening his mouth and actually producing words, nothing comes forth.

"Clark?" Dick asks, taking a hopeful step forward. Clark just shakes his head, eyes cast down to the floor and eyesight blurring again from tears. "No." Dick stumbles back into a chair and places his face in his hands, crying loudly.

Jason punches the refrigerator again and walks out, Tim calling after the sixty-nine year old but Tim's voice chokes and then tears are streaming down his face too. Damian glares at the counter, hands curled into white knuckled fists, jaw clenched so tight that Clark actually becomes a bit concerned for the boy's old bones. Terry stares at nothing and Clark imagines being able to hear the young kid's heart breaking into a million pieces.

Clark takes another deep breath and is finally able to speak with great difficulty. He doesn't meet any eyes, not that anyone is looking at him in the first place. "I can arrange the funeral if you all want," he offers quietly.

Dick looks up, empathy shining in those blue eyes. "You don't have to do that, Clark. We're his sons. We can."

"Yeah," Tim adds, bringing a wrinkled and liver spotted hand up to his own eyes to wipe the tears there. "We have the money to pay for it."

Clark is glad no one makes the comment that Clark doesn't have the money, that he doesn't have it because he doesn't work anymore and because Clark Kent has been legally dead long before Bruce, so Bruce was never able to leave him any. Clark doesn't care about that though. He doesn't care about the money or the high profile of dating a rich man. All he ever cared about was Bruce himself.

Clark nods anyway. He'll let the boys take care of the funeral. He somehow gets the feeling they _have_ to do it for themselves in order to start the moving on process. Clark isn't ready to move on yet, _doesn't_ want to move on yet. He wants to go back to Bruce's room and find the man breathing, moving, _alive_. But he knows he won't. This isn't a nightmare he can wake up from. It's reality and Clark is going to have to deal with it at some point.

But today is not that day.

 **End**

 **A/N: Thanks for reading!**


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